Blackwatch: Tales of the Jäger
by Raphael Havok Blake
Summary: When Pandora's Box was opened, it released the mythical monster that have hunted humanity across the millennia. Since then, one organization has hunted them back. Rated T for some violence. Repost of the story I originally posted on FictionPress. Taking all requests for monsters/time periods/locations.
1. Chapter 1: Melodic Prelude

**A/N: Hi all! like the description says, I originally posted this on my linked FictionPress account, but I feel that it will do better on here. If you have a monster you'd like to see and/or a time period and location you'd like me to cover, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Enjoy!**

17th Century France

The music stops. The noble applauds and chuckles with glee. Thomas Stanley puts his flute down, bows, and leaves the room. He can't remember the fat slob's name, but then again, he doesn't need to. He puts his wooden flute into one bag, next to another one made of silver. Certain performances require one or the other, he had told the too-curious noble earlier today.

Thomas walks out into the night. It's warm tonight in Marseilles, he says to himself. Once he is clear of Baron So-and-so's manor, he opens the other bag, the long black one that he refused to let the Baron ask about. He removes his favorite hat, as well as a long coat from the bag. He puts on a different belt than the one he had as a musician, this one having a large buckle, emblazoned with a black hammer across a large shield. He hooks the flutes onto little rings attached to his belt, pulling the light coat over himself to conceal the instruments. A sharp whistle summons a brown horse, which Thomas mounts and rides into the night.

His destination is only an hour away on horseback, a small homestead in the countryside, far from most other people. It's not much to most people, but Thomas Stanley isn't most people. He knows he's travelled all the way from London to come to this exact spot. He knocks on the door, once, twice, pauses for two seconds, then thrice. A voice asks, "Is there a friend where friendship is wanted?"

"No, but kin where kinship is needed," Thomas answers. The door opens and closes behind him just as quickly. The man at the door, a tall, dark-haired Frenchman in his 30s, introduces himself as Hercule Pouliot, Jäger-Kapitän of Blackwatch forces in France. "Thank God you have arrived, Monsieur Stanley. Kapitän Thatcher recommends you highly for what we have called you here for." Roland Thatcher, Jäger-Kapitän of England's branch of Blackwatch, is a friend of Pouliot's.

"Just tell me where to go." Thomas follows Pouliot into the basement, where he is given three poultices filled with a sickly green liquid. "If you get bitten, drink one. The attacks, they have been happening in the area around this homestead. The first attack killed its residents. Normally, I would not ask England for assistance, but this one, he has killed four of my Jäger, all good men…" Pouliot pauses, indicating to Thomas that one or more of these men were close friends, or maybe more. "_Bon chance_, my brother." Stanley nods and walks back upstairs to the exit.

Hunting a hunter is never an easy task, but it's the one that Thomas has been given. He keeps low to the ground, his footsteps barely audible in the golden field. His eyes dart back and forth, catching the rustling of bushes in the distance…no, that's just a rabbit, Thomas reassures himself. He quickly shuffles to the woods in front of him, eyes open and alert, ears focused on the slightest noises. He reaches for his flute, the silver one, and begins to play a soft melody, one of his own conception. He isn't sure why he's playing – maybe it's for his nerves, or maybe he's hoping it will draw the creature to him.

Thomas stops. He can hear it now, a slow rustling sound. Movement, straight ahead, he registers. Coming straight towards him. He begins to back away slowly, foot over foot. The rustling gets closer. He can see the bushes shake, the branches crack…and a deer pops into view. Thomas breathes a quiet sigh of relief and relaxes a little. Big mistake.

The attack comes quickly, from a blind spot on his left side. Thomas is knocked to the ground, but scrambles up quickly to discover…nothing in sight! He turns around, but there's nothing but grass and the homestead. He whirls back around, and finds himself staring at a column of black fur.

The werewolf stands 2 heads taller than the Jäger. Its mouth, lined with razor-sharp teeth, is open as it pants excitedly, sensing that its quarry is shocked and trapped. With a snarl, it swipes upward, knocking Thomas Stanley a few feet backwards. "Bugger," he hisses, feeling the bloody slashes across his chest with his left hand, the right hand's fingers wrapped tightly around his flute. He scrambles back another dozen feet, and the werewolf charges, running on all fours towards him like the animal it is. "Just a little closer, you overgrown mutt," He snarls, a grim smile crossing his face.

The werewolf leaps, claws in front of it, mouth open and ready to bite. Now, Thomas screams to himself. He pops off a small cap on the end of his flute to reveal a spike underneath, and as the beast lands, Thomas shifts to his left and stabs upward. The silver spike punches through the werewolf's chest, piercing its heart, and the monster staggers backwards, knocking the flute out of its chest. Thomas stands, clutching his own chest, and kicks over his target with a yell, more out of pain than victory. The beast gasps once more, and then breathes no more. It does not become a human again at death; werewolves are born as such, as every Jäger knows. He picks up his flute, replaces the cap, and collapses in the field.

"Wake up, Mr. Stanley." Thomas opens his eyes and looks around. His chest is bandaged and he lies on a white bed. The voice belongs not to Hercule Pouliot, but to Roland Thatcher. "Had a good sleep, did we? Welcome home, and job well done. We picked you up not long after you succeeded. You've been out for at least a week." Thatcher has a penchant for answering people's questions before they even asked them – some argue he may actually be telepathic.

Thomas rises with a wince and looks up at his superior. "Orders, sir?"

"Ah, ever the stalwart soldier. Rest and relax, Mr. Stanley. You've earned yourself two weeks off."

About bloody time I went on holiday, Thomas says to himself, and closes his eyes to sleep again.


	2. Chapter 2: And the Horse You Rode In On

Texas, 1872

Wyatt Jackson always enjoyed watching the sun set. As a teenaged slave in North Carolina, he'd never had that simple pleasure; too much work to be done to watch the sun set. Same as in the Army after he escaped: no time to watch a sunset because the Rebs or the Injuns could attack at any time, so he had to stay vigilant. Right now, he didn't have time to either, but he was making it.

A young Navajo woman appeared at his side. Her black hair was cut short, and she wore a green shirt, brown duster, canvas pants, and leather boots instead of more ethnic clothing. The woman's green eyes observed Wyatt closely. "Come, we are wasting what little daylight we have left." Her English was perfect, but with her native accent retained.

"Have some patience, Scarlett. Whatever you're searching for out here isn't gonna get too far," he said, wrapping a strong arm around her waist. Former U.S. Army Sergeant and current Texas Ranger Wyatt "Justice" Jackson had known his wife Scarlett Littlebear since they were teenagers, and yet there were many things about her that he didn't quite get. Like why she had dragged him out into the middle of nowhere to look for something that she refused to tell him about. Ever since her trip to New Mexico three years prior, she hadn't been the same.

Scarlett pulled away from her husband and glared at him intensely. "That is not the problem, you idiot! I have to find it before it claims more lives! The more time we waste staying put, the more people will die!" She emphasized the last three words in a way that sent a shiver up the Ranger's spine. Scarlett took a spyglass from a saddlebag that hung from her horse, a white Hungarian Half-Breed named Siren. Both the bag and spyglass were adorned with the Navajo Four Sacred Mountains. Because she could never go home for marrying a non-Navajo, Scarlett liked to think that the decoration would provide the Mountains' protection wherever she went. She tossed the glass to Wyatt. "Look for movement, or bodies. Anything at all that seems out of place."

Wyatt stepped to edge of the plateau they were standing on and looked through the glass. "Crazy woman. Knew I should've left her in that cabin I found her in," he muttered to himself, knowing full-well he didn't mean it. As a 12 year-old runaway slave, he'd stumbled upon a rundown cabin in Arizona and hid there to evade the slave hunters that had pursued him so fervently from North Carolina. It was there that he found a little native girl no older than he, with a name he couldn't have hoped to pronounce. She'd been running to, from soldiers who'd kidnapped her with the intent to…make use of her. They'd shared Wyatt's meager provisions as he escorted her home, like the proper Southern gentleman that his master's son had tried to teach him to be, not long before helping him to escape the plantation. The tribe, knowing the plight of his people, let him stay. Before he returned east to fight the Rebel Army, he and the girl he'd come to call Scarlett (after mishearing her real name) had become best friends and more, and he'd fought for the right to marry her when he came back, a bona fide warrior and "buffalo soldier". Now here he was, 17 years later. "Wait, there's something over there," he pointed to shape some distance off. "Looks like a dead horse and rider."

Scarlett cursed in Navajo under her breath. "We should get a closer look, Wyatt." She mounted Siren and rode in the direction her husband had gestured to. Wyatt ran over to his own horse, Sandstorm and urged him into motion. The golden-colored Kentucky Saddler, a gift from his old commanding officer, galloped in pursuit of Scarlett and Siren. Before long, they'd reached the spot and dismounted. Wyatt knelt down for a closer look and gasped, motioning his wife closer. "The bodies…"

Both the horse and its rider were shriveled, like grapes or prunes left out too long in the hot sun. The man was pale, his face almost ashen in complexion and twisted into a silent scream. "Look here," Wyatt said, pointing to markings on both the horse and the man's necks. They resembled teeth marks, but in a pattern that Wyatt didn't recognize as belonging to any animal he knew of. He stood, fighting back the knot he could feel twisting in his stomach. "It's as if their bodies were drained of all their blood," Wyatt paused and looked over at the stoic Scarlett. "What exactly are you tracking out here?"

She looked up thoughtfully, then back at Wyatt, repeating the words that she herself had been told. "The Mexicans call it _El Chupacabra_. It normally only attacks goats, but ever since crossing the border into Texas, it has developed at taste for the blood of humans as well. I have to find it and kill it."

"And just why is this your problem? Why do you have to be the one to do it?!"

"It is my mission, the reason why I insisted on moving to Texas originally."

The Ranger looked away, processing all of what she said. "Right after you returned from New Mexico…sweetheart, does this have to do with your trip?"

"Wyatt," she hesitated, her eyes suddenly sad, "there are some things that I have kept from you. When I went to New Mexico, I met a group of people who saved my life from a yee naaldooshii. They offered me a chance to help others in the same way that I had been helped. I accepted and trained with them. After I proved myself, they sent me home with this mission. I have to complete it, with or without your help or approval."

"A yee naaldooshii?! The creature from all the legends they used to tell us at the tribe? You're going to have to forgive me if I find this a little hard to swallow." He sighed. "You've never lied to me before, even when it would have been easier for you. Fine, if it's your mission, then it's mine as well."

Scarlett sighed in relief and kissed her beloved tenderly. "I am sorry that I called you an idiot, my love. And I am sorry that I doubted your willingness to do this once you knew the reason why. This kill looks fresh, so the monster is not far. We will kill it, then once we are home," she gave him a mischievous grin, "I will repay you for your loyalty."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" They galloped off on Sandstorm and Siren in the direction the bodies were facing. After a time, Wyatt looked over at Scarlett again and asked, "So, what other little secrets are you keeping from me in that beautiful head of yours?"

"Just one more. But it will wait until our prey is dead."

They rode all night after their prey, following a string of dead animals just as shriveled as the man and his horse they'd seen earlier. At daybreak, the trail ended. Scarlett dismounted Siren, drawing an ebony-colored Henry Repeater from another saddlebag. Branded onto the stock was a curious symbol, a shield with a powerful warhammer across it. Wyatt also dismounted, taking out his nickel-plated Winchester rifle, one he affectionately called Minerva, or Minnie. He patted at The Showstoppers, custom Colt Peacemakers holstered on his belt, handles inlaid with Sequoia wood and the barrels etched with symbols of the Navajo that took him in when nobody else would. "Be on your guard, my warrior," his wife called out in Navajo from in front of him.

"And you, my desert hawk," he replied in her language. The pet name made her glance back with a smile.

They heard the shriek first, a high-pitched scream that made Wyatt's blood run cold. "Behind us!" The couple turned, Wyatt kneeling, both taking aim at the newcomer. It stood on four legs, as big as an adult puma, skin a sickly green color. Its six eyes were blood-red, darting between the black man and the native woman. Its open mouth was a toothless pit, its claws as long as daggers. A spike-like tongue darted in and out of its gaping maw. Wyatt pushed his fear down and fired Minnie, with Scarlett unloading with her Henry. The beast hopped back and forth, dodging bullets with inhuman agility as it approached the two.

"Littlebear, I'm out!" Scarlett pulled the trigger to defend her husband, only to hear a hollow _click_. The beast leapt at the ex-soldier and tackled him to the ground. "Wyatt!" she screamed, running at the beast with a hunting knife drawn, but a slap from its whiplike tail knocked her back. The Chupacabra raised its head in a triumphant howl.

Justice Jackson struggled underneath the monster, dodging its tongue as best he could as it targeted his neck. "Son of a whore," he panted, "you're not getting my blood that easily!" The Chupacabra pushed him down harder, still trying to stab the man's neck with its tongue. Wyatt reached for The Showstoppers, and managed to shoot it twice. The beast leapt off him with a shriek, wounded but not dead. It charged again, zigzagging towards Wyatt to avoid his gunshots, only to be stopped cold by a bullet to its ugly head. Wyatt turned to see Scarlett, rifle in hand.

"I had time to load just one shot," she said, running to Wyatt. "Are you hurt?"

"Only my pride, what with you having to protect me and all," was the reply, a grin crossing the man's face.

She punched his arm playfully. "You are an idiot…but, you are my idiot. Now help me collect its head as proof". As she beheaded the creature, Wyatt declawed it with his old Army knife. "I might turn these into blades, or maybe a necklace. A scary necklace for a scary lady," he grinned at his wife again.

She scoffed at his stupid joke, being long-accustomed to them by then. "Hey Wyatt," she started, mounting Siren, "that last thing that I have been keeping from you?"

Wyatt mounted Sandstorm. "Yes?"

"I am with child." She patted her stomach, and with a laugh she rode off, leaving her husband there with a shocked smile on his face.


	3. Chapter 3: Reap What You Sow (Part 1)

**A/N: Hey everyone! Hope you're enjoying the tales so far. Note that some of the phrases in this next one are in German. Despite being part-German, I can't really speak the language, so if I've made any grammatical errors, please shoot me a PM to let me know the mistake and I'll correct it ASAP. Enjoy!**

Germany, 1945

"Well, that was bittersweet," remarked Dominic Cortés, quickly closing the bunker door behind him to keep the cold air and snow out. He removed his Russian-style hat, one of the Soviet colonels' ways of thanking him for his help, and brushed any excess snow out of his short ponytail and well-trimmed goatee. His normally swarthy complexion was nearly pale after the trek he'd made across the Black Forest to get to his destination.

His companion shook the snow out of his short blonde hair and looked over at Dominic. "_Ja_. To accomplish so much, yet fail such a major objective…" Wolfgang Wagner let his shoulders sag, staring at the floor in dejection. "At the least, he is dead and the Box is ours. And his plans to control the monsters within it died with him. Speaking of which, we need to report in."

"Right you are, Wolf." Wolfgang and Dominic took the stone stairs in front of them down further into the unassuming bunker until they reached a solid steel door with a sliding slot near the top. Dom knocked once, twice, paused, then thrice. A voice behind the door asked in German, "Ist es ein Freund, wo Freundschaft wird gesucht?" In English, Dom replied, "No, but kin where kinship is needed." The door opened with a loud creak.

The duo walked into a small, well-lit room. It was devoid of any effects, save for a large symbol on the back wall, one of a shield with a large black warhammer laying across it. The woman who greeted them pointed to a door just below the logo. "They are waiting for you," she said, eyes nervous but voice unwavering.

"_Danke, fräulein_," Dominic said, opening the door. He and Wolfgang were treated to a cacophony of loud voices as soon as they entered the large room behind it, some in German, some in English, and one or two in Russian. While the voices were too mixed to comprehend, Wolf and Dom could guess what the subject being argued was.

"_Hauptfeldwebel_ Wolfgang Wagner and Major Dominic Cortés, reporting," he barked, stiffening and clicking his heels together. Despite his defection one year earlier, some old Nazi tendencies died hard for the man. The voices died down, and a tall German man stepped forward. Despite his advancing age and thinning hair, the man carried himself with an air of confidence and authority. He looked at each man, then smiled. "Dominic, Wolfgang. Your actions have caused quite a stir. They are saying that Hitler is dead, killed by his own hand. You two wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" The old man allowed himself a brief chuckle.

Wolfgang drew his sidearm, a well-polished Mauser C96. The handle had two symbols on it. The first was the Nazi eagle holding a swastika. The second was a fist emanating electric bolts, a symbol of the Doomtrooper "übermensch" program that turned Wolfgang into the man he was. "A gift from _Der Führer_. How ironic that it provided his own demise, _nein_?" He handed it to the aging Jäger-Kapitän, who inspected it briefly, then called over one of the men behind him, a bespectacled young man who disappeared through another door with it.

Jäger-Kapitän Franz Schtauffen faced the two men again. "Such a shame that you could not have stopped him from opening the Box, however. All those millennia spent hunting its creatures, only to have many more unleashed upon this Earth," Franz sighed. "Were you at least able to procure it from Hitler's corpse?"

Dominic stepped towards the Jäger-Kapitän and reached into his coat's left pocket. He produced a box no bigger than a paperback novel. Its ruby exterior was crisscrossed with glowing silvery veins that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. The lid was held to the body with a strange-looking lock, as well as what appeared to be military-issue rope. Dom undid the rope and handed the package to Franz.

"Pandora's Box…I thank you, _Herr_ Cortés, for returning it to the proper hands." Franz Schtauffen handed the box to another young man behind him, who carefully walked it through a different door. "Now, I have an assignment. You two boys seem to be getting along nicely enough, so I'm giving it to you," the old man laughed. "But for now, rest up. You've both earned it."

Dominic and Wolfgang split off when they reached the living area. After briefly watching his new best friend walk down the corridor to his private quarter, Dom entered his own and took off his heavy coat and shirt. His muscular back had five long parallel scars running diagonally across it, a reminder to never let one's guard down. No sooner than having removed his gear, he felt a soft touch tracing his scars. "I find scars so unattractive," a female voice said from behind him.

Dom smiled, recognizing it. "Oh, is that so, _señorita_?" He turned and faced the woman leaning against his shut door. She was as tall as the American Spaniard, her long blonde hair braided all the way down and hanging over her shoulder. Her ice-blue eyes flashed along with her white smile. She wore a loose-fitting black button-down shirt typical of Nazi officers, but with the red swastika armband replaced with a gray one bearing the Blackwatch insignia. Her skirt bore the same crest on its side, and her leather boots were so polished that Dom swore he could see his own reflection in them. "Still stealing your brother's shirts, I see," he mused.

Serena Wagner laughed. "He won't miss one out of the many he has." She leapt into the man's arms and kissed him deeply, still laughing. "He didn't give you too much trouble out there, did he?"

"Not until after I told him I've been dating his older sister for two months."

"How did Wolfgang react?"

"Like this." Dominic put her down and unbuckled his pants to reveal an ugly electrical burn on the inside of his upper thigh. "You can guess what he was aiming for when he pointed his glove at me."

Serena stared at the blackened area thoughtfully. "I should have warned you, he's quite overprotective. Does it hurt? I have creams somewhere –"

Dominic raised a hand to cut her off. "It's fine, I'll have the medics look at it." He buckled up his pants again and changed into a new shirt, similar to the one Serena was "borrowing" except olive green in color. "Meanwhile, you should go see him. Might zap you too if you don't." Dominic headed towards the medic's while his girl went to her brother's door.

Wolfgang Wagner took a seat outside the medic's office, crossing his arms. He was now wearing his old Nazi regalia, with no hat and the armband replaced, of course. He didn't regret what he had done to Dominic, not one bit. The nerve of the man, secretly dating his sister this whole time that he'd known him, and then telling him right before they'd entered Hitler's bunker too! He wondered if all Americans were the same way, brazen and thoughtless like Dominic could be. _Maybe I should give him another bolt_, he thought, _I do not miss twice_._ Alas, he is my friend, and Serena would never forgive me if I castrated the man she loves_. Eventually, Dominic exited the nightingale-adorned door, carrying a small jar.

"Salve, for the pockmark you gave me, _hermano_."

"'Pockmark'? '_Hermano_'?" Wolfgang's English was good, but he had yet to grasp idioms and contractions, much less the Spanish terms his friend would throw into his sentences every so often. He sighed. "Never mind. It is time, Dominic. _Herr_ Schtauffen awaits us in the briefing room."

"Thanks, let's not keep him waiting." Dom followed Wolf down another corridor. "Listen, I'm sorry I dropped the news about Serena and I on you the way that I did. I just reckoned one of us could die trying to stop Hitler, and there'd be no other chance to say it."

Wolfgang's electric-blue eyes literally sparked as he spoke. "If were not my friend, you would already be dead, Jäger or not." He paused, stopping dead in his tracks to look at Dominic. "If you break her heart," he said as he held up his hand, electricity jumping between his gloved fingertips, "I will stop yours. _Verhesten Sie_?"

"I understand."

"Incidentally, I would prefer that she sees you instead of someone I did not know. At least I trust you, Dominic."

"Oh? You sure have a strange way of showing it," Dom replied, rubbing the burned spot gently through his pants. They'd reached the briefing room at last. Waiting there was Jäger-Kapitän Schtauffen, speaking to a man with his back turned to the pair.

"Come in, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce our guest." The man turned around, and Dominic quietly gasped.

"Colonel Armstrong!" He snapped into a crisp salute, standing stiff as a pole until the man nodded for him to be at ease. He was tall and fair, the gray streaks in his brown hair giving him a distinguished look. The few wrinkles in his face vanished as he flashed Dominic a broad smile. "You're a member of Blackwatch, sir?"

"I lead our American branch, actually. Come on, you didn't think I'd just let you go AWOL otherwise, did you, Marine? My old friend Franz told me about your mission when we crossed into Germany, so I arranged for the guards to take a little card break with me the night you left." USMC Colonel and Jäger-Kapitän Bartholomew "Black Bart" Armstrong patted Major Cortés on the shoulder. He looked at Franz, who nodded an approval to him. "Now, you're probably wondering why I'm here. After all, as you know by now, each branch is relatively autonomous. Well, today is special. You could even call it history in the making.

"With the threat of monsters resurgent after Hitler reopened the box, the world needs Blackwatch more than ever before. Creatures are popping up all over the globe in larger numbers. It won't be long before larger populations are threatened by an evil that they only thought existed in myths and fairy tales. To that end, we had a meeting of Jäger-Kapitän – those men you no doubt saw when you spoke to Franz earlier today. We decided that to counteract these growing numbers, we're going to need a team, comprised of the best the organization has to offer." With that, Colonel Armstrong handed Dominic and Wolfgang each a black patch. It was identical to the standard Blackwatch logo, save for one difference: crossing the warhammer was a scythe. "Gentlemen, welcome to the Reaper Vanguard."


End file.
